“You must think I am made of money,” said his father, displeased.
“It’s pretty much so,” said Guy, nonchalantly. “Your income must be ten thousand a year.”
“I have a great many expenses. How have you spent your allowance?”
“Oh, I can’t tell exactly. It’s gone, at any rate. You mustn’t become mean, father.”
“Mean! Don’t I give you a handsome allowance? Look here, Guy, I can’t allow such extravagance on your part. This once I’ll give you five dollars, but hereafter, you must keep within your allowance.”
“Can’t you make it ten?”
“No, I can’t,” said his father, shortly.
Guy rose from the table, and left the room, whistling.
“The old man’s getting mean,” he said. “If he doesn’t allow me more, I shall have to get in debt.”
As Guy left the room, the mail was brought in. On one of the envelopes, Mr. Roscoe saw the name of his lawyer. He did not think much of it, supposing it related to some minor matter of business. The letter ran thus: